


Opulence

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Ficlet, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, One Shot, Reflection, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 17:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15868752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Sonia Stevens enjoys her luxurious, gluttonously sloth-like morning in. She has it all, but this is the primadonna rise and fall.





	Opulence

**Author's Note:**

> She's a terrible person, but I love her.
> 
> ... I suppose if you read between the lines, you'll detect the S6 spoiler.

 

Sunlight streams in past the Belgium linen curtains that guard her balcony’s window. Her Hollywood wave of hair falls gracefully over her gossamer pillow. The back of her forearm swipes across her Botox-injected forehead. Sonia Stevens has it all.

This is the false veneer of glamour and beauty. Day old mascara clings to her lashes. Her silken nightgown (intimate apparel that so skillfully seduced Detective Kaplan) shifts up. With a groan, cheap plastic stirs awake.

The primadonna rise occurs before the pivotal fall. A white ermine stole sleeps soundly in her closet. Her head throbs, thrums, and hums. Last evening, she neglected the red. In celebration, Sonia opted for vintage scotch. Disgruntled, her pale hand roves over her face.

The space beside her bed is empty. Undoubtedly, Don has made his exit. Despite his green, Don satisfied through temporary stress relief. Men won’t deny her when she’s finished the plastic surgeon more times than she can count. She prefers it this way: neat, no strings attached, save for _collusion_.

Stretching, she arches her back before slipping into a more ‘modest’ number. She ties on the burgundy robe, all too aware that it will unfasten. As a replicant of Sargent’s Madame X, Sonia basks in her groggy reprieve. This morning, she mixes her pills. Rattles the near-empty bottle. One blue and one beige. She swallows her medicine dry. She exudes cocaine style though the white powder escaped her life during her toxic thirties.

Barefoot, she treads across her marble-tiled floor. This Queen of Sheba doesn’t make her bed. The door’s been left ajar. She navigates the maze she knows well. Her mansion houses neo-romanesque columns. Avant-garde art adorns the lifeless walls. She found the red and pink number from a no-name gallery in Melbourne. Sonia feels nothing for it now.

At the kitchen island, she settles at the quartz countertop. The morning after always leaves her groggy. It’s nothing an early afternoon gin and toxic tonic won’t fix. For now, she spikes her black, black coffee. A little overindulgence keeps her young.

Consider her a refined hedonist. She embodies the grace of a timeless starlet, old-fashioned Hollywood in a bombshell modern marvel. A dark-winged angel flutters about her home. No one can touch her.

The subversion of her husband’s empire grants her the keys to this unholy kingdom. The poor fool sleeps in the sea. For Sonia, disappearing without a trace remains an _unbearable_ thought. She wants to be remembered, televised across the nation and the globe for the sake of her industry. A promising, new development has occurred in the span of cosmetics; she patents her line as glamour and armour.

A whirl of steam threatens to fog her vanity. Sonia settles on the velvet, claw-footed bench. She sips at her piping hot witch’s brew. The wicked ones make it far. In the mirror, Greta Garbo blows herself a kiss. She fawns over her reflection. Arrogance defines her.

There’s an artificiality to her character. Liz Taylor redux wears a smile that knows how to hurt people. She reapplies her lipstick and puckers up. Basking in her glory, Sonia declares herself untouchable. She spritzes Yves Saint Laurent on her pulse points. Black Opium, to be precise.

Hair crowns a woman’s glory. Manicured talons pick at her crow’s nest. The waves lack their camera-ready luster. She tames the mane with a roller.

Her thumb roves across her collarbone. Gradually, Sonia puts back the pieces of her menagerie life. The glamorized high stakes allow her to conceive an ageless mask that will be thwarted by teal.

From cosmetics to Green Walls, she’ll find herself a condemned woman soon enough. Little does she knows that one woman, a drunkard (recovering) and a mother of two, will be her undoing. Her perfect patsy is the mole that burrows her funeral hole.

Sonia sets down her rouge, green eyes burning into her reflection. Faded beauty stubbornly clings on.

The next day she would be carted away.

**Author's Note:**

> As an alternate ending, I contemplated having Sonia wake up in a cell. Ah, well.


End file.
